Vibranium Heart
by VioletDelonquiest
Summary: Maggie Brown always knew her life was supposed to be an adventure. What she could have never predicted was that an impulsive trip to visit an old friend would throw her right into the path of the world's most dangerous spy agency, and its most destructive weapon. Updated every Friday.
1. Prologue

Prologue: I Seek

Hannah always jokes that if there's one thing about me she can always depend on, it's my unpredictability. She still loves to tell the story of waking up one morning freshman year to discover me in the other bunk, snoozing away as if I'd always been there. She'll roll her eyes and sigh in exasperation that I've been foisting things on her ever since. She has a point; after all, this whole trip was a spur of the moment idea during a 1am Skype chat.

I maintain that I'm actually the sturdy one. I did the responsible thing after graduation and settled down to a 9-5 lab gig at a faceless tech corporation while she went gallivanting off through eastern Europe. While I monotonously copied design specs for senior engineers, she was locking herself in yet another museum or flirting with yet another foreign guy. The truth was, getting away for a week to sneak just a tiny slice of her everyday life was just too tempting, especially when nearly everyone above me was going to some swanky conference in the Hawaiian Islands.

I check my phone again. For once I'm on time, and she's ten minutes late. I can almost feel my reputation for unpredictability tick away with every second she fails to materialize. I try the coffee again. Cold, and getting even colder, with an added bitterness on my tongue as I near the bottom of the glass. I absentmindedly scroll through my phone, just to have something to do; my fingers aren't happy unless they're constantly tinkering with something. Years of hand exercises to control the anxiety that popped up early in my college career meant amazing dexterity, but it's a wasted effort at the moment. The scrolling does nothing to ease my mounting concern.

I mean, I really _am_ the unpredictable one. Yet we moved our meeting a day earlier for her, after a sudden and anxious barrage of texts from her this morning. She was adamant we meet as soon as possible, promising she'd explain over coffee. I and coffee are here, but she and the explanation are nowhere to be found. I scan the crowd, craning for a glimpse of her vivid headscarf, just as my phone gives a hopeful little chime.

"Running late," the text from Hannah reads," Come meet me."

I get to my feet and shrug on my backpack, swiping letters as I go. "OK. Where?"

"Up the hill," says the response," Next to cafe."

I take a quick survey around me. The only hill I can spy anywhere near me is through a narrow alley just beside the coffee shop. Cloth lines hung heavy with washing, just above head height, bathe most of the alley in deep shadow, with the sun-draped hill just on the other side.

I step a few inches to my right, trying to peer around the cafe, searching for another way around, when my phone chimes again. "Just walk through," it says.

I blanch down at the screen. Is she kidding? I peer suspiciously back into the alley. I can see most of the shapes in the shadows between the two sunny streets but, still, she must be kidding.

"Nice try," I smirk down at my phone, turning to go. A gloved hand over my mouth is the last thing I recall before the world goes black.


	2. One

One: I Start

I try to reach for my bed covers, to smother the blinding light just over my head. There's an intense pressure right behind my eyes. It feels just as if does right before one of my panic attacks. Seems silly, though, to panic in my own bed, to feel my heart hammering in the empty space of my chest, to be unable to drive away the strange, bright light.

I suddenly realize, with sickening disorientation, that I'm not in my own bed. I'm not in my hostel bed, either. I'm on a thin cot, with a flashlight in my face, and my shirt drenched through with sweat. Someone seems to register my open eyes. They grab me roughly, pulling me up into a sitting position, and slap me squarely across the face.

The burning of my cheek finally pulls me into full consciousness. I blink rapidly, clearing the sleep from my eyes, trying to get my bearings. I'm in a small, dank room, lit by eye-piercing fluorescent lights. Two men stand over me, and I register with terror that they are holding long guns the size of my entire arm.

"Get up," one orders, reaching down and yanking me forcibly off the thin cot onto my feet. I follow his instructions without protest, too numb with shock to argue, swaying stupidly where I stand. I feel foolish for only now realizing I've been kidnapped. There's just enough space in my petrified brain to wonder if Hannah is okay; did she sell me out? Did they swipe her phone? Or have they kidnapped her too? I don't dare ask, not until I have a better grasp of what's going on.

"Are you Maggie Brown?" the guard demands.

"Yes," I bleat, embarrassed by the fear in my throat. The man closest to me moves-to hit me again? Instead, he's standing aside, letting me see the whole room. In the corner, there's another man I didn't count before, bare-chested, seated in a dirty old dentist chair, his long hair hanging limp into his face. He seems to be clutching his arm.

One of the men with the guns seizes my arm, and shoves me roughly towards the dentist chair. "Fix him," says the guard.

"I-don't understand. Fix him?" I repeat blankly, staring down at the man in the chair. He hasn't glanced up a single time to register that anything at all is going on around him.

"Yes," the guard confirms," Fix his arm."

I turn to stare at the guard instead. "I'm not a doctor. I'm an engineer. If his arm is broken, he needs an actual doctor-a hospital."

The guard who speaks steps forward, grabbing my shoulder with his free hand. He whirls me back to face the dentist chair, and shoves me so close I nearly tumble into the seated man's lap. A glint of light catches my eye and I lean closer. His arm... his arm is covered in metal. Covered-or _is_ metal?

Instinctively I reach out to examine this new mystery, and the seated man jerks back, as if I have stung him. His head still hangs, chin tucked close to his chest, but the way he holds his arm suggests he is in a great deal of pain.

"I'm sorry," I say gently, trying to remain motionless so as not to startle him again," Please, may I see?"

For several long seconds, I'm not even sure he's heard me. Then, slowly, he releases his arm, extending it towards me, allowing it to gently rest in my grasp. The metal is cold to my touch. I run my fingers over it delicately, taking in the grooves, the scratches and the dents. I was right the second time-it IS metal. A metal bionic arm, like nothing I've ever seen before.

I glance over at the guards. "This is-this is far more advanced than anything I've ever seen. I didn't even know you could _do_ this. You need a more advanced technician. I don't know that I can fix this."

"Have to," the speaking guard grunts in reply," Can't get anyone else. They're all at some conference. Mission has to continue, and you're what we've got."

"I'm not sure you understand," I insist, trying to keep my voice calm and even," I think there may only be a dozen people in the whole world who can fix this. I just _don't_ have the capacity."

The guard who speaks motions forward the silent guard. I can see now that along with his long gun, he is carrying a large, overstuffed duffel bag. He clumsily paws at the zipper, dumping the contents at my feet-thick white 3-ring binders. I pick one up, peering at the contents, and catch pages of detailed schematics.

"Instruction manuals. Fantastic," I mutter, not reassured.

"You have 3 days," the guard informs me.

My attention snaps back to him," 3 days? Are you nuts? I'll be lucky if I can get through these in a week!"

"Mission has to continue," the guard replies, completely apathetic to my protests," Trail is getting cold."

The seated man seems to be watching me from the corner of his eye, head still bent against his chest. He hasn't moved an inch since offering his broken arm, and as I peer despondently in his direction, I can get a good look at him-scarred and lean with at least two visible knives in his belt. Is he a prisoner too, forced into doing their bidding as well? Some gut instinct says likely not.

I glance back at the guards. "And if I refuse to help?" I ask, less from bravery, and more from my pathological need to gather every piece of relevant information.

In answer, the guard subtly cocks his gun.

I sigh, figuring that would be the answer. "Well I'm going to need tools. Something a little stronger than Scotch tape, if you've got it."

The guard speaks over his shoulder to his companion-Russian, Ukrainian perhaps? I steal a quick glance at the metal arm. It's angled away from me, but I can just make out a decorative red star painted over the outer bicep. Yet the bossy guard is clearly American. I file away my endless questions; now isn't the time to be distracted.

The silent guard returns to our small room from a heavy, reinforced side door, letting it swing shut with an ominous bang behind him. He's carrying a large tool box, setting it carelessly at my feet. I push open the top to take a quick inventory. The tools are rudimentary, but I suspect I can make do.

"Fine," I bark, take a deep breath, and push all other concerns from my mind," Bring me a chair, and let's get started."


	3. Two

2: I Strive

I've lost any sense of time. I can't measure it in sunlight, or manual pages read, or progress made on this bizarre metal arm. I could measure it in meals, of which there have been three, but the guards might bring them at inconsistent intervals. Would a ticking clock help motivate me? Probably not. Still, what a kick it'd be if I was nearly finished just as the three days were up and they shot me in the head just before. Oof, maybe shove that thought away.

I sit back momentarily to wipe my forehead of sweat and examine my work. I try to use those precious seconds of free head space to consider my predicament. I'm pretty sure that if they kidnapped Hannah, she's not being held in the same place I am; there seems to be no one but myself, the guards, and the metal-armed man; the guards seem to watch us in shifts. The concrete bunker is small, and poorly maintained. I considered escape for ten seconds then gave it up as even more foolish than fixing a bionic limb in just a few days; for as much as I know, I could be miles from anyone who could help me. No, the only way out that door is sitting right in front of me.

I shift my brain back into focus and try to measure what I've done so far. I'm pretty sure I've dug out all the bullets. Most of them just lodged themselves in the surface metal of the arm, but one nicked the elbow, and another buried itself in the man's armpit, right where metal arm met skin. He'd been lucky-the arm took most of the damage, with relatively minor burns from the fragmented lead and little blood loss. I made the guards fetch a first aid kit and did the best I could to clean the tattered skin and sanitize the area. The metal-armed man never spoke, simply raising his arm so I could wrap clean gauze around his shoulder in a makeshift bandage; he never flinched, barely seemed to blink, even while the alcohol from the cleaning pads seeped into his wound. I had to guess that despite how generally well the wound looked, it still must have felt like agony.

As I struggled to properly dress him, I could feel the heat from his skin, and feel his perspiration beneath my fingers. The temptation to joke about how silently he took such clumsy medical treatment nearly overwhelmed me, but I fought it back in the end. A man with bionic metal arm filled with bullet holes may not enjoy such jocularity.

Once the bullets were removed came the real tough part. It took two binders before I could even figure out how to get the metal surface off to see the electronics underneath. The metal-armed man didn't seem the least concerned with my fumbling, as if he was used to people poking around inside the jumbled maze of wires and computer chips inside his arm. Probably was. Couldn't be too used to it; I guessed he wasn't older than thirty. How long had he had this strange implant? Yet another question I filed away.

I started at his finger motors first, intending to move gradually up the arm, figuring most of the damage to be around the elbow and red star. I gave him simple instructions...point your index finger, make a fist, give me a thumbs up… my voice coarse from long under-use. He obliged without comment or expression, every slight movement triggering a ballet of mechanics beneath the metal surface. Despite the loaded guns behind me, I couldn't help thrilling a little at what I saw. The motors moved beautifully together, each responding to the slightest electric impulse, perfectly balanced and perfected tuned. Fully operational, he'd have as flexible a grip as any flesh and blood hand. Better, even, I'd wager. I itched to try further experiments-to test the true ceiling of how much pressure this arm could exert, before abruptly remembering where I was. Something for the lab when I got back. If I got back, anyway.

The few times I risked a glance at his face, I found it impassive and blank, as if he was in some kind of trance. There was nothing unaware about his eyes, though. He stared straight ahead, never catching my eye when I looked at him, but I felt the intense pressure of being watched every time I looked away. From the corner of my eye, I saw him watch suspiciously, cautiously, as I began testing out the electric signals between his fingers and his forearm, making sure everything connected. I did my best to pretend I didn't notice his side-eye; it probably hadn't been his idea to drag me here. I was a stranger, entrusted with something irreplaceable of his, perhaps something that have saved his life many times over me. I'd mistrust me too, in his position.

Careless with my thoughts, I clumsily nudged a central wire, pressed deep down between the gears that connected hand movements to wrist. The metal-armed man jerks back, sucking air between his teeth in a hiss, his face twisting with pain.

"I'm sorry!" I squeak, hardly daring to breath as I wait to see if his free hand goes to the knives secured into his belt. His right hand waivers, and then drops back into his lap. Instead, he sits in stony silence, his face a thundercloud beneath his curtain of dark hair.

"I really am sorry," I try again, doing my best to look contrite," … But really, it's hard to concentrate with you watching me like a hawk."

I don't expect a response, but I get one.

"Should watch you closer," he mutters. To my surprise, he finally turns his gaze to me, looking me full in the face; his eyes are a startling blue-green, vivid against the paleness of his skin. He indicates his broken arm with a glance," If this is how you fix things, maybe they should stay broken."

I sit stunned for a second, stupidly staring at him, until he finally sighs and offers his arm to me again. "Just watch what you're doing," he admonishes wearily.

I clear my throat, half in an attempt to steady myself and half to appear far more put-together than I feel, and bending, return to my work. His voice is low, and rusty from disuse, just like mine. He speaks very fluent English, with just a touch of a Russian accent. Russian is the theme, then. Two Russians and an American, in a seedy bunker in old Soviet territory. I might finally be getting somewhere. The guards have made it clear I'll get nothing more from them-but perhaps if I can get the metal-armed man to keep talking, I can finally uncover something useful.

"Well, stop trying to stare a hole through my head, and I'll do my best," I say, attempting to keep my tone light and unruffled," How is it feeling?"

He slowly flexes his fingers, first thumb, then pointer, on down the line. "Can't make a grip."

I frown down at the clamps," It's based on wrist motion, right? Move your wrist one way, or the other, to do different grips?"

He nods.

I chew compulsively on my lower lip," And I assume wrist motions come from movements in your upper arm? So you move your shoulder, which moves your elbow, and it's like dominoes?"

He nods again. Conversation is apparently not one of his deadlier skills.

"Do you usually have feeling in your arm?" I shuffle through some of the manuals, trying to find an earlier schema I hadn't understood," Are you neurologically paired up?"

"It's a combo," he says simply, still curling and uncurling his metal fingers, as if reassuring himself they're there," Some thought, some movement. I can still feel above my elbow a little bit."

I glance at the upper part of his arm gloomily; if the links were broken up up to that point, I'd have even more work than I thought.

The metal-armed man's commanding voice suddenly shakes me from my thoughts. "Go to sleep."

I glance at him, startled," Excuse me?"

"Your eyes are glazing over. Go sleep; you clearly need it."

I manage a withering scowl," I'm on a clock here. I can't afford to sleep."

"You can't afford to knock another wire," the man warns darkly. I'm on my feet instantly, quickly heading towards the thin cot. "Point taken!" I point at the bossy guard, stationed beside the door and busy scrolling through his smartphone," Wake me in five hours, and not a second later."

The guard regards me dismissively. "I don't take orders from you."

I throw a knowing glance over my shoulder at the metal-armed man, still seated in the dentist chair. A single glance from him makes the guard straighten into attention. "Yes, sir. Five hours."

"Don't you sleep?" I ask the metal-armed man. This time, his domineering glare is in my direction.

"Okay, okay, fine, I'm going!" I settle myself on the cot," Wake me if-" I'm out before I even figure out what I was going to say.


	4. Three

3: I Shift

"You rotten sonofabitch!"

The metal-armed man watches dispassionately as I hurl yet another three-ring binder across the bunker. It strikes the sealed steel door with a dull clang, just inches from the Silent Guard's head. He seems more intimidated by me than his American counterpart, but after several hours of watching me throw curse-laden tantrums, he seems less easily rattled.

I continue to dig through the pile of manuals, flinging pages and schematics in every direction," What volume was that in? 43? No, 43 was still outer shell construction. Well?" I bark at the metal-armed man. He shrugs with just his good shoulder," I decided to stop risking your vengeance by answering after the fourth binder you threw at me."

"Well you _should_ risk it; you probably have a metal skull to match your metal arm," I snap, and to my astonishment, he suddenly chuckles. It's small, and momentarily, but absolutely a sound of wry amusement. He catches my incredulous stare, and quickly switches back to staring impassively off into the distance.

"Didn't know your vocal cords could do that," I observe quietly.

He throws me the very smallest glance, as if suddenly afraid of meeting my eyes. "…I think it's in manual 87."

I quickly bend back down to my pile of manuals, pushing aside my fifth meal, left forgotten on its plate, making much more of a show in searching for number 87 than is strictly necessary. For some reason, I abruptly don't want to meet his gaze either; strange, since I'd been doing almost nothing but looking at him for nearly two straight days. Part of me senses I will never forget his gaze, wary and watchful and cryptic, and the way my skin prickles when I catch him covertly examining me. He is still just as intimidating as he'd been, and yet, something _has_ changed. I no longer fear him; probably inevitable when you lock someone in a room with a bunch of strangers, even when you give those strangers guns, that everyone is going to eventually get used to each other. He knows me now; knows that I reflexively sang old Celtic ballads when I am really concentrating, knows what I look like when I haven't showered for days, and how I hate orange juice.

Without even trying, I realize I know him too; the subtle shifts of expression on his face, the cycling tension and exhaustion in his body as I tweak his nerve endings, his sardonic and unpredictable sense of humor. Even the smell of his skin, sweaty and musty in a way that reminds me more of a sunset beach than a locker room. His level stare is different now, still vigilant, still guarded, but almost as if he could look right through me, down into the messy core of everything I was and am and will be. It's frightening, but in a wholly different fashion.

"You missed it," he interprets my train of thought," It's by your foot."

I snatch up the manual I'd been mindlessly overlooking, trying to ignore the blush spreading across my face. For no reason I can pinpoint, I feel utterly ridiculous. "Good," I clear my throat, trying to appear professional as I flip through the pages," Ah, yep, here it is. Flick your wrist again."

He does, the movement natural and smooth. "You've made good progress," he says approvingly.

I can feel my face burning even hotter now. "Um-well, thank you, but I've still got a long way to go, so if you could just shut up, that would be wonderful."

"I have conditions," he replies.

I snort," I think I'm still in the middle of fulfilling one of them."

"Sing that one song again; about the ghost and the grave."

I look up at him in surprise," The Unquiet Grave?" I hadn't even realized I'd sung it in front of him. There were some songs I sung so frequently while I worked that my coworkers had begun to join in, hollering out the lyrics from across the lab, but I thought I'd only ever sung that one alone.

He nods, still looking away from me. After a pause, he asks, "Where did you learn it?"

I duck my head, focusing on the mechanics of his arm with unneeded attention. "My mother," I reply quietly. I haven't figured out if the silent guard speaks English, but I don't want him to hear, not this. "She used to sing it when she was sewing. I think my dad and I- we started doing it, too. One day someone walked into our shop, and said all three of us had been singing it together, with none of us really noticing. She and Dad sounded great singing together." I clear my throat again, embarrassed by the slight waver in my voice.

He notices. "Something happened to them," he states simply.

I nod, still concentrating hard on the wires around his elbow. "Car accident, right before college."

"I'm sorry," he says, and I think he means it.

I have better command of my voice now. "It's okay. It's been a while. I'm okay now. It was tough at the time, but I moved on. I have a pretty good life." I glance around at the bunker," Okay, well, usually."

"The song reminds you of them," he says, again in his matter-of-fact way. Before I can respond, he continues," It reminds me of something too; sad, but also comforting. Like feeling you are somewhere familiar, somewhere you belong. It makes me…. Miss something."

"Oh? What?" I ask, intrigued. He shakes his head very slightly," I'm not sure. I think it reminds me of-someone. Someone who I haven't seen in a long time, but I can't think of who."

"Perhaps your one true love?" I tease, and am rewarded with a partial smile, though no reply. I pause, unsure if I should risk it, but finally say, feeling courageous," What about your parents? They still around?"

"I don't know."

I try to casually look at him, without betraying my intense nosiness," Lost touch with them?"

There is a ghost of an expression haunting just around the corners of his mouth and eyes, something like pain and confusion. "No. I don't remember them."

"Did they die when you were little?"

"I don't know."

My curiosity is piqued, perhaps dangerously so," Were you adopted?"

"I don't know." His confused gaze finally meets mine, and the force of the emotion in his eyes feels like a battering ram to my chest. "I don't know anything about my parents. Or about my childhood. I don't even know my name."

Suddenly the Silent Guard is on his feet, marching towards us, his gun up and ready. He snaps something in Russian at the metal-armed man, and instantly, almost as if it was never there, all emotion disappears from the metal-armed man's face. The metal-armed man looks disinterestedly up at the guard, and waves him off with something that sounds dismissive. The Silent Guard hesitates a moment, looking back and forth between the two of us, and then grumbling, returns to his post.

The metal-armed man turns his attention back to me. "I believe you have work to do," he says expressionlessly.


	5. Four

4: I Stumble

My eighth meal goes untouched. The metal-armed man, the man with no name and no past, makes no comment about my continuing neglect. He doesn't lecture me as I allow myself only a few hours of sleep, either. Perhaps he can sense my panicked, frenzied intensity. I rather suspect, as he sits unmoving as stone, he just no longer wants to recognize that I'm there.

I work tirelessly, always moving, checking diagrams and rewiring the small, fragile gears at his shoulder. If the wires seemed like a jungle mess in his forearm, it's nothing to the layers upon layers or red, green, blue and silver wires that crisscross and cover every inch of his bicep. It takes very steady fingers to gently push aside the tangle to get to the corrupted internal workings. I have to stop several times to shake out my hands-they won't stop trembling. This is the kind of intensity my brain craves and yet, for the first time in my life, I can't lose myself in my focus. My brain will shift into gear, only to splutter and grind down another path of thoughts unprovoked. How can someone not know their past, or even their name? Did he choose this? Has he been brainwashed? But what for?... If I'm honest with myself, I know what for. The knives on his belt are so close I could brush my fingers against the steel by accident. The knives always intimidated me, and yet I totally put any thought of why he would need knives out of my head. They appear almost sinister to me now, gleaming in the low light, and I'm unable to suppress a shutter whenever I catch my reflection in them. I've been such a fool; his metal arm is scarred with violence. And really, how many purposes could there be for such a precise bionic limb?

How did I ever believe I wasn't in danger? He's brainwashed, and violent, with a mission-but from whom? Does he work for the government, or some foreign body? Does it matter? Oh God, what am I a part of? When I fix his arm-if I even _do_ fix his arm-does that mean innocent will die? Am I an accessory to murder?

But what good would it do, to throw down my tools and refuse to continue? They would simply shoot me, abandon this particular mission, and find someone else to fix his arm, someone who doesn't mind dirty hands. My sacrifice would mean nothing, and yet my success would mean the almost guaranteed death of someone else; I can attest to the overwhelming power and precision of this metal weapon.

Unless… unless I kill the metal-armed man.

I don't understand everything in the metal arm. There are whole portions that the manuals completely ignore, I would guess intentionally. At first I ignored them too, those tiny chips buried in his upper arm underneath all the layers of wires. They seemed to have nothing to do with the arm's functionality and so were none of my immediate concern. Now I steal glances at them as I continue to work my way up from fingers, then wrist, forearm, elbow, upper arm, and finally now shoulder. I can only make an educated guess, but one of them is bound to be a kill switch. No bionic-sporting assassin working for a shadowy organization is complete without one. If I found it, and triggered it…

By the time my ninth meal arrives, I've narrowed it down to two switches. My instinct is to ignore the food and keep going. But I force myself to pick up the tray and chew, letting my options swim around in my mind. I have no concept of how much more time they'll give me, how much longer I have left to live. Either way, if I'm going to flip the switch, it'll need to be soon.

The eternal optimist in me surmises that the switch probably causes some type of explosion. If there's no remote safety, it's probably instantaneous, killing everyone nearby. Worst case scenario, the switch kills only the metal-armed man, and the guards either kill me instantly, or torture me for days before killing me. I want to lie to myself and insist I'd face such treatment with courage born of moral righteousness, but the cowardly truth is I'd prefer the explosion.

I swallow the last of my meal, utterly unaware of what it was I was even eating-it all tasted like sand in my mouth. I turn back to my work, my brain heavy with fatigue and decisions. In all scenarios I can think of, I die if I flip that switch. I certainly never envisioned going out like this; my widest prediction had been a roller coaster accident. Still, if it meant I saved even one innocent life, maybe it'd be worth it. I don't want to die-but maybe some things are more important than my life.

Suddenly the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, in the way they do when I can feel the metal-armed man's gaze on me. I look up without thinking, too tired to be cautious. His eyes lock with mine, and he doesn't look away. For a moment, I panic-can he tell what I'm thinking, what I'm planning? His face reveals nothing. His stare is even, unemotional, and yet just the sight of his vivid eyes causes my heart to constrict. I'm thinking of all the innocent lives out there, and ignoring the one sitting right in front of me. I don't know that he choose this; he could be just as much a victim as anyone he kills. I can make a choice about my own life, but to decide for him that he should die is no better than what I'm deciding he should die for.

"I'm finished," I say quietly.

I sit back in my chair to allow the metal-armed man full range of motion. He tentatively flexes his wrist, slowly bending and extending, rotating his shoulder in circles with satisfactory fluidity. As conflicted as I feel about my decision to not flip the switch, I can't help a feeling of pride in the arm's functionality.

The American guard steps close to us, his gun still strapped to his side. "How does it feel?" he asks.

The metal-armed man makes a few full-armed swings, like a pitcher winding up for a fast ball. After a few moments of stretching, he nods at the guard.

"Good," the guard says, and raising his gun, points it directly at me.


	6. Five

AUTHOR'S NOTE:  
Thank you to everyone for being so patient with me! Things have been a little chaotic on my end, so I haven't been able to update as frequently as I'd like. Hopefully now everything is settled so you'll be back to seeing regular weekly updates from me. As a special treat for your patience, expect Chapter 6 sometime this weekend. And thanks as always for reading!

5: I Survive

I sit numb in my rickety metal chair, staring incomprehensively at the gun barrel just an arm's length from my face. I've never been this close to a gun before; I foolishly think how I can smell the metal. "But," I say stupidly," I finished. And I think I finished in time, didn't I?"

The guard just shrugs, and pulls the trigger.

Several things happen all at once. Something pushes me, hard, and I fall to the cold cement floor, smacking my elbows and knees against the hard surface. I look back over my shoulder, otherwise frozen with shock. The metal-armed man is on his feet, plunging a knife deep into the gunman's chest. The guard drops to his knees with a horrified gurgling sound, and then collapses so close to me I have to scramble out of the way. I barely absorb the way his glassy eyes are fixed on me before the metal-armed man is hauling me roughly to my feet. The moment he lets go, my legs give out from under me, refusing to support my weight; he catches me and sets me upright again, waiting patiently as I shakily test my stance. When he seems sure I'm not going to collapse again, he nonchalantly reaches down and picks up the gun beside the dead guard.

Without even a glance in my direction, the metal-armed man turns to the metal door, examining it with intense interest, as if he himself doesn't know how it opens. I think wildly that must mean he's a prisoner too, that he's here against his will, that he killed an enemy instead of an ally, that will somehow make murder comprehendible and all right.

There's a muffled shout from the other side of the door. As if anticipating me, the metal-armed man throws me a silencing look, holding a single finger to his lips. I copy him automatically, holding my own finger to my own lips, trying to swallow down my hammering heart.

The shout comes again. The metal-armed man moves beside the door, his gun at the ready, with me standing paralyzed in the center of the room. He moves in such an uncanny and unsettling way, like a stalking wolf. I can't tear my eyes from him. I want to beg him to not leave me, but everything in my body seems to be moving in slow motion, and by the time I open my mouth to voice my panicked plea, there's more shouting from beyond the locked door. It sounds panicked, too, fast Russian growing louder and louder. I know what's coming, and yet feel totally helpless to stop it.

The locks on the door creak, the door opens. The Russian guard rushes in. He has just enough time to register me standing there, and the body of his fellow guard behind me, before the metal-armed man steps forward and shoots the guard point-blank in the head.

I start to run. It felt like a rubber band stretching and stretching and finally breaking in me, my terror turned to adrenaline as I bolt past the guard crumpling to the ground, the metal-armed man, out into a dark tunnel that smells of dirt and stale air. I can hear the metal-armed man yelling behind me, but I don't stop. The path blurs around me. Part of me wonders if there are any other guards, and how quickly they'll kill me. Or will the metal-armed man kill us all first? I push the thoughts away as I pump my legs, willingly them to be faster, blindly following turns and corners until I'm so turned around I could never get back to the bunk even if I wanted to. I abandon any thought and let animal instinct drive me on, desperately hoping it will lead me home.

I hear the metal-armed man yell for me again, somewhere close. I don't allow myself to slow. I don't allow myself to think, to remember the smell of flesh blood, the empty way the guard's dead eyes stared up at me. I'm still in the nightmare. I have to get out, before I forget what a world without assassins and dead bodies looks like.

I don't even register the change of light until I'm suddenly standing in the middle of a sunlight-soaked meadow of wild flowers. The air is tangy with the smell of salty ocean water. I skid to a halt, overwhelmed with astonishment. It's as if I've been transported through some invisible portal into the middle of unspoiled nature. Seems I was right about being miles away from any civilized help.

My feet abruptly leave the ground. I scream, a full-throated sound of unbridled terror, all the horror of the last few days loosened into my blood. I twist around, trying to get free of the stranger's grip, clawing and kicking like some wild thing, but I can't gain an inch. I feel a mouth against my ear, and the metal-armed man's voice says," It's me! It's all right. Maggie, it's all right."

"It's not all right!" I choke out a strangled sob, half-relieved and half still shaken to my bones. Hysterical tears are flowing freely down my face," Put me down, put me down now!"

He does as I request, as easily as if I weighted as much as a heavy pillow. Through the haze of my hysteria, I have to admire a job well done; there's not the slightest sign of exertion, or that his metal arm was ever broken at all. The moment my feet touch the ground, I turn on him violently, but he's kept his grip on at least one of my arms, and manages to dodge my wide left hook.

"What the fuck!" I can't stop the words from spilling out of my mouth. I don't recognize my own voice, screeching, full of terror. The metal-armed man regards me with some mixture of confusion and annoyance.

"What-what the fuck, you just-just shot them! I thought they were on your side!"

His expression shifts just slightly, from confusion to his own peculiar expression of wry amusement. "My side?" he asks.

"Yes! I mean-weren't they helping you with your arm, and your mission? Didn't they work for the same people as you do?"

"Yes, they did," he answers calmly.

"So… were you their prisoner? Is that why you… killed them?" my voice shakes. I am pointedly looking at his face, trying not to see the splatters of blood across his body, trying to make sense of his untroubled expression.

The metal-armed man shrugs with just his right shoulder, as if the question barely interests him. His nonchalance morphs my panic into a hot, twisting knife in my side. I jerkily try to pull my arm from his grip," Let me go!"

"Not until you promise not to run," he sounds genuinely concerned.

"What will you do to me if I do? Gun me down just like them?"

"No!" he exclaims in shock," No, I-I was trying to…"

"To what? If you kill the people you work with, then why should I be any different?"

"Because I was trying to save you," he snaps, and immediately looks like he regrets ever letting the words slip out. The words freeze me in place, my addled brain struggling to take them in. Save me? I draw in a shaky breath, trying to quiet the shivering quacks of my heart. If only I could remember my therapist's calming techniques but my mind is a blank slab of raw mania-they always worked so well when I wasn't in the presence of a homicidal assassin. Not very good calming techniques if they don't work in all situations. Maybe I should ask for my money back, I think, and break into nervous, uncontrollable giggling.

"Maggie?" the metal-armed man seems truly alarmed now.

"I'm sorry," I hiccup through the giggling," I'm just, sorry, anyway. You can let me go, I promise I won't run."

He considers me warily for a moment, and then gently releases my arm.

"You were trying to save me? From-from the guards?"

"Yes. They were never going to let you live. You'd live long enough to fix my arm, and then they'd shoot you, and bury you here in the meadow."

I shudder at the blandness of his words, but then, this is what every day must be like for him. "So you shot them. That really going to go over okay with your shadowy organization?"

He snorts contritely," Not likely. We'll need to hole up for a few days until it all passes over."

"Will I be able to go home after that?"

"Do you want to?" he asks quietly. He sounds almost… sad, but no, that can't be, my brain obviously still needs to be straightened out.

"Yes, I really do. I don't think I'm cut out for the assassin business," I manage a half-hearted smile. He smiles back," Then I'll get you home." He turns and begins to wander off into the meadow, without waiting for a response. I quickly jog after him, struggling to keep up with his quick strides. "So where are we?"

"Few hours outside Drama. Greece," he adds, catching my confused expression," I've got a safe house in Kavala."

"Hope it's not too long of a walk," I mutter, already feeling a little out of breath from trying to keep pace. He chuckles, the sound still alien enough to make me start in surprise," There's a car hidden around here somewhere. It should still have your bag and papers-ah, there." He points to a thicket of trees and low brush, but it isn't until we're within five yards that I can just see the chrome bumper. He pushes the branches and brush away to reveal a small four-door; a Dacia, I think?

"Not what you were expecting?" he asks, with just a hint of teasing.

"I admit, I assumed shadowy assassins traveled in a bit more style," I say as he brushes off the last of cover. With two guards, a metal-armed assassin, an unconscious tourist, and a whole bunch of guns, it must have been a tight fit. He moves around to the trunk, popping it open to reveal a few simple black duffle bags. After digging for a moment, he tosses me a backpack," Your passport should be in there. I'd also suggest a change of clothes."

I glance down at myself. My khaki capris and tank top, clean at some point, are splattered with dirt and gore. A change of clothes suddenly sounds better than anything else in the world. I unzip the backpack to find a simple t-shirt and pair of jeans.

"All right, well then, turn around," I order. He looks up at me in disbelief," Excuse me?"

"Turn around, so I can change."

"I'm not going to watch," he scoffs.

"Then there's no problem turning around to ensure you won't," I reply, crossing my arms over my chest in what I hope will look like a display of dominance.

"Or I could just leave you here," he counters darkly.

"Okay, okay, fine, don't turn around! Just-just don't look, okay?" I start to unbutton my capris, but my fingers are limp with exhaustion, and I'm unable to even properly grasp the fabric. He watches me struggle with the button holes for a moment, then with a sigh, steps around the car. Panic blooms in my chest for a moment, but he only reaches forward, undoes the buttons with utmost professionalism, and then with a small smile, turns his back on me.

With the buttons undone, I'm able to strip off the pants and shirt with only some fumbling, and yank on the t-shirt and jeans. The t-shirt is too big and the jeans too long, but I'm hardly in a position to complain or care.

When he's sure that I'm fully covered, he turns back around and once again assists me with the buttons on the jeans, his metal fingers moving with nimble swiftness. He smiles down at them almost fondly, and returns to the trunk of the car.

My mind has finally calmed down enough that questions begin to flood in; like why, for example, he bothered to save me. He clearly has no moral conviction against killing, so he didn't save me for the ethics points. Saving me also seems to mean that he has to go on the run from whoever controls him usually, an act that probably involves dangerous and difficult logistics I'm only now beginning to comprehend. His act of mercy now means he has to babysit a clueless American for who knows how long, with seemingly no upside for him. Perhaps he's saved me with plans to have me continue working on his arm?

I watch as he pulls out another pair of jeans and a black zip-up hoodie from one of the duffle bags. Displaying not an ounce of awkwardness, he strips off his own blood-drenched pants. I quickly turn away, doing my best to appear coolly uninterested, but a soft chuckle from him suggests my blush has not gone unnoticed. Thankfully by the time I turn back, he's zipping up the hoodie, effectively disguising his metal arm. As a final touch, he slides on a pair of sunglasses, and flashes me a full grin; I wasn't even aware he had that many teeth.

"Now _that's_ unsettling," I blurt out.


	7. Six

6: I Swim

I accept the metal-armed man's suggestion that he drive with little resistance. The truth is, as I stumble into the passenger seat, I feel like I can barely stand. The adrenaline is slowly draining from my body, leaving exhaustion and a muddled brain behind it. And what if we get pulled over? It's not like I've taken a Greek driving test recently.

The metal-armed man slides into the driver's seat and summons the car to life with ease. I buckle myself in, preparing for the inevitably bumpy trip back to something like a road, but he steers the car with such deftness I barely feel any jostling at all. He finds a road within half an hour, and only a short time after that, we're speeding through the picturesque countryside. He never consults a map, and seems to barely glance at road signs. For a man who has no memory of his childhood, he navigates the area as if he's been here his entire life.

I make a stab at conversation when the silence finally starts to get to me. "Been here often?"

"Once," he replies.

"Do you have some kind of memory chip in there, too? And I was just thinking, what do we do if they're tracking the car?"

"Why would they be tracking the car?"

"Isn't that what shadowy spy organizations do?"

He shoots me what I think is a look of pity," What a waste of time. This is just a rental. Besides, they don't need to track the car to find me."

"Oh my gosh, do you have a tracker? I didn't see anything like that in your arm, but I might have missed it…."

"Calm down," he orders," Take a deep breath. It doesn't matter if they're tracking us."

"It doesn't? But if they track us, can't they, like, send assassins to take us out?"

His expression is absolutely pity this time," We've got a couple of hours' drive. Go ahead and sleep; you clearly need it."

"Just because you're rescuing me doesn't mean you can tell me what to do," I cross my arms defiantely.

"Let's get something straight," he replies, and although neither his expression or his tone changes, he is suddenly back to the intimidating assassin from the bunker. He doesn't look at me, eyes locked on the road ahead, as he continues," If you want to survive, you're going to do _exactly_ what I say. No hesitation, and-" he glances at me from the corner of his eye," -no questions. You may need to run, or you may need to take my lead and play along. My instructions are all that stand between you and certain death. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I say, a chill creeping beneath my skin despite the warmth of the summer day just outside the car," Though… you're essentially asking me to trust you blind. You realize that's a tough thing for me to do, right?"

"I do," he nods," And I understand that I'm also asking you to promise that, should something happen, and I tell you to run and leave me behind, that will be tough for you to do as well."

I open my mouth to argue, but realize he's right. Just like I couldn't bring myself to blow him heavensward back in the bunker, I'm not sure I could abandon him to fate, even to save my own skin.

"I'd make a horrible assassin, wouldn't I?"

"Well," he gives me a small smile," I'm not a very good mechanic."

I don't mean to sleep. Regardless of his actions, I still don't know the metal-armed man's motivations for saving me, and I do my best to resist the exhaustion overtaking me, but sleep I do, and suddenly I'm curled up against the corner of the passenger seat, and night surrounds the car. I drowsily sit up, rubbing my eyes. "How long have I been out?"

"About eight hours," the metal-armed man says," We should be at the safe house shortly."

Dawn peeks out over the empty streets as we slide into the outer limits of the city. Beside me, the metal-armed man seems completely relaxed, gently guiding the steering wheel with only one hand, his free arm propped against the open window, as if we're some absurdly mismatched road trip buddies. I steal a sideways glance at him. In his simple zip-up hoodie and with his dark hair pulled back, he's a different kind of intimidating-the kind that reminds me I stammer very badly on first dates.

The car moves through the quiet city like a hammer against glass, engine roaring in the provincial silence. Shops are just beginning to open, pushing up their grates and sparring us hardly a glance. I would have thought a foreign car zipping through the streets would attract some attention, especially as the metal-armed man takes yet another corner with a sharp turn, gunning the ignition.

"Shouldn't you slow down a little?" I blurt out as he nearly collides with a fruit stand," I thought we were being conspicuous?"

"This is conspicuous," he replies, ramming the throttle again," Only non-natives you see here are rich assholes. Gotta blend in." He throws me a wide, mischievous grin and my heart gives a strange lurch. Who knew he had that many teeth? I shift nervously in my seat, uncertain if it's his change in mood that unsettles me, or the way I notice that his canines are just a little too long, sinking into the soft tissue of his lips when he smiles.

"You're oddly cheerful for a man on the run from a shadowy spy organization. With a civilian tag along, no less."

He gives his one-shouldered shrug; at least that much hasn't changed.

"Don't tell me this is fun for you," I say, baffled.

"Most fun I've had in ages-I assume," he grins again. I make a deliberate choice to stare at the road ahead instead of the way his mouth curls into a little smirk at the corners.

"I don't get out a lot, except for-"

"Yeah, got it," I interrupt quickly, glancing around at the buildings we pass. They are getting progressively nicer as we move further into town-newer, taller and covered with cool-colored stone instead of bright, chipped paint. There are still shops, but there are wide balconies on the windows. "Where are we going?"

"Told you-safe house."

He's decelerating now, sliding down a hill road carved right into the side of a steep cliff. I follow the road with my eyes, wondering if I can spot this top-secret assassin hide-out. At the bottom of the road, beside a sandy white beach, is a lone house, three stores and sprawling beside a pool and a lush patio the size of my entire apartment. Probably costs more than my life savings, as well.

"Is the safe house hidden along the cliff?"

The metal-armed man indicates the beach house with a jerk of his chin," That is the safe house."

I let out a low whistle," Why couldn't we have fixed your arm here?"

"Gunfire would be more noticeable here," he replies, and I am unable to tell if he's making a joke or not.

He pulls the car into the expansive driveway and climbs out, totally at ease.I clammer out of my side, trying to drink in every feature without betraying what a lost little lamb I seem to be at the moment. The front of the house is beautiful sandstone, with a wide double front door made of deep mahogany wood. The doors on the second story are open to the sea breeze, light curtains fluttering out onto the shallow balconies. The house is silent; we seem to be its only guests.

He swings our bags onto his back, and comes around to my side of the car.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asks softly. He's moved so close to me I can feel his breath on my cheek. He leans even closer," I'm really looking forward to the next few days with you."

"What-?" I am about to cry out, but just as I open my mouth, he rests his hand at the small of my back. I was wrong about his easy manner. I can feel intense tension through his touch. He's alert, and already spotted something I can't begin to sense. This is some kind of game, some signal he's giving me. _Play along_ , he said.

"Oh yes," I reply breathlessly, plastering on my best smile," It should be very…. memorable."

He grins at me, but his smile has lost all of its former warmth. His eyes are weary, already slipping back to the man I'd first met only a few days ago. Back on mission-but what's his mission now?

He casually loops his arm through mine and leads me into the house. At such a close range I can feel how rigid he is, as if he expects to leap into movement at any moment. I do my best to keep my eyes straight ahead, the same stupid smile frozen on my face.

"Like it?" he asks playfully.

"Oh no, it's a complete shack. I'm ashamed just looking at it," I snort. He laughs, and suddenly he's dropped the bags and swept me up into his arms. I cry out in genuine surprise and -I'll be honest- embarrassment, as he cradles me against him, carrying me up the front steps to the door. He pushes open the doors with his hip, not bothering with the handle. No lock, open windows… was someone expecting us? He carries me over the threshold, and sets me gently on the tile floor of the entryway. The interior of the house is still dark, not yet touched by the early morning sun creeping over the cliffs. I take advantage of the shadows to shoot him a questioning look, and hold up my left hand, ring finger extended.

He shakes his head. "Weekend fling," he mouths, with a small smirk.

I roll my eyes, and then exclaim loudly," Wow, it's so _big_!"

He can't help a small chuckle, and responds, just as loudly," You haven't seen anything yet, babe. I'll get the bags." He steps back out into yard, giving me a moment to collect myself. I'm glad; already I feel keyed up and anxious, unsure if I should even venture further into the house without him. Maybe the place is booby-trapped, and that's why no one bothers with locks. I can't help but laugh at myself a little. I _would_ make a horrible spy; the paranoia would do me in before I'd even completed a mission.

He reappears in the hallway with the bags slung over his shoulder. Pointing deeper into the house, he says," There are three bedrooms upstairs. There's a bathroom on this floor, if you, uh… want to freshen up."

"Thanks," I hesitate for a moment, then say," Before you and I started…. hanging out, I was visiting with my friend Hannah. I really miss her. I hope she's okay… with me ditching her."

He gives a small nod of understanding. "I'm sure she's fine."

My heart lifts. It's good to know that she didn't somehow get mixed up in all of this, beyond just a missing phone. "I… wonder if she'd be okay with me calling her."

There's a long pause before he answers. "Service can be kind of spotty out here. But-I might be able to help."

"Thank you," I say, completely genuine. Before I can loose my nerve, I throw my arms around his neck for a quick hug. He seems as genuinely surprised at my action as I am. I quickly release him and, grabbing my bag, hurry down the hall, securely closing the bathroom door behind me. The bathroom is small, but peaceful; exactly what I need.

Turning to the mirror, I gaze in shock at my reflection. I look a damn mess, my hair going in every direction but inward, my skin greasy. The t-shirt hangs awkwardly awkwardly around my shoulders, as if I've stumbled onto a few extra pounds to add to my frame. My pique at my appearance is nearly forgotten as I step into the shower, though. The pressure of the warm water is perfect, massaging the stress from my sore muscles and washing away the sweat, grime and disorder of the last few days. The bathroom comes fully stocked with top of the line shampoos, skin creams and fragrant bath bars. Who would have guessed an assassin hideaway was so luxurious? As I debate my options, I lightly ponder if maybe I picked the wrong line of work.

Until I recall the vacant expression of the dead guard's eyes.

The thought comes unbidden. I wonder if he's still there, still laying motionless on the ground in that silent tomb. Will the shadowy organization give him burial, send him home to his country and his family, or will they simply burn the place to the ground and let him lay for eternity where he fell?... where the metal-armed man put him. Despite the warmth of the water, I shudder violently, and I stand beneath the stream until the hot water runs out.

Clean at last, with my haie in some kind of order, I emerge from the bathroom in a tank top and shorts, already feeling the wet heat of the house. I wander past dark room after dark room, my footsteps echoing against the wooden floors. I panic momentarily that the metal-armed man had abandoned me, yet am too stubborn to call out for him. It's strange; he's seen me look like I just did, and cry, and sleep, and yet I still shy away from letting him see any more weakness in me if I can help it. Maybe he just has that effect on people.

I find him at least in an office type room with double doors leading out onto a patio, and beyond, there's a perfect view of the beach and sea.

He looks up as I pad in, smiling slightly," You look refreshed."

"You mean you can finally tell the difference between me and a pile of refuse and twigs," I flop down onto a plush couch across the cozy room. He's seated at the desk, absorbed in a laptop, still dressed in his jeans and hoodie. Apparently he doesn't need to be clean to look good-his tangled, tousled mess of hair only seems to heighten his physical appeal. With his metal arm hidden, it's almost too easy to fool myself into thinking I'm on some fantastic vacation with a guy whose eyes match the color of the crystal-like ocean beside us.

"So whaca doing?" I ask, mostly to distract myself from my thoughts.

"Spy stuff."

I peek over his shoulder. "That's Solitaire."

"Only while my program is installing," he says a bit defensively, pulling up a second program window," In a few minutes, the IP should be secure enough that you can message your friend without being recorded.

I glance cautiously around the room. "Aren't they recording us now?"

"No need in most of the safe house, though there are cameras outside, so try to resist any streaking-unless that's your thing." He stands and offers me his seat. "Your friend probably is being monitored, though, so do your best to act normal."

"I'll be sure to avoid mentioning shadowy organizations and kidnappings. Wait, where are you going?"

He pauses as he reaches the doorway. There's a grim set to his jaw as he glances back at me. "To work." Then he disappears into the dark hallway.

I shake my head as I turn back to the computer screen. Maybe one of the biggest appeals of spy work is getting to be a giant drama queen.

I manage to fend off most of Hannah's questions about my disappearance by insinuating that I had met a European guy and run off with him; details aside, not a total lie. Although it wasn't at all like me, I was able to assuage her suspicions easily; she said it was clear how crazy I was about the guy. I had never known my acting skills were so impressive.

As for the guy I'd actually run away with, I saw little of him for the next day. I looked all over the house for him come lunchtime, ready to offer my admittedly amateur cooking skills in the fully stocked kitchen, but he was nowhere to be found. His bags and the car were still exactly where I expected, so I eventually gave up, and set about amusing myself.

The place was eerily quiet. Even with the distant sound of the waves crashing on the shore, it was difficult to avoid the claustrophobic feeling of loneliness. My fingers itched to be useful, and my brain yearned for stimulation. I found that, whenever I wasn't feverishly occupying myself, dark thoughts would trickle into my head. The memory of the dead guard. The self-destruct button in his metal arm. Would I ever see home again? By the time night finally settled onto the house, I was a nervous wreck. Scavenging sleeping pills from a hidden drawer I'd rummaged through earlier that day (and why the house came with such an impressive stock of them, I forced myself to avoid wondering) I locked myself up in one of the upstairs bedroom, and passed out onto the queen size bed with the high thread count sheets.

I woke up in the morning determined to get my head on straight. All I could do was trust the metal-armed man, wherever that might lead me. Until then… I was still technically on vacation. Throwing on a swimsuit, I grabbed the trashiest book I had brought with me ("Age of the Machine: How Humans Became Obsolete") and settled myself onto a beach towel beside the ocean, letting the sun and the surf seep into me as I spread myself out onto the sand.

The metal-armed man appears just as the sun reaches its highest point. He moves so quietly I don't even glance up until I feel a shadow pass over me, nearly yelping in surprise.

"Holy cow, scared me half to death," I push my sunglasses up onto my forehead, glaring at him. He shoots me a wide grin. He's in swim trunks and a tight surfer top, perfectly camouflaging his metal arm. His legs are as well-built as the rest of him, the picture of a Californian beach bum. "Just wondered where you'd gotten to."

"Is it okay for me to leave the house?" I ask anxiously.

"Of course," he settles down onto the sand beside me, tipping his head back to take in the sun's warmth. My breath catches a bit in my throat as I take in his profile, from his well-shaped nose to the sturdy elegance of his throat.

"Any progress?" I look away quickly, stupefied by my own errant thoughts.

"Some."

"Oh, well, when you lay everything out like that, I can't help but be reassured."

"I'm afraid you really might need to relax," he glances at me with a raised eyebrow," And that's coming from me, which says something. I don't think I've ever met anyone who wanted to get away from this so quickly."

I sigh and pull my knees up to my chest. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't put so much pressure on you. You've already done so much for me."

"And you for me," he interjects quietly," Though I suppose you're aching to be back at work. Have you always loved working with machines?"

"Oh yes, ever since I was young."

"Where did you grow up?"

I smile a little proudly. "Brooklyn. My parents were very encouraging-well, no wonder, my mother's sewing machines were always breaking down, so my early interest in mechanics was absolutely a boon to her."

He tils his head, studying me with his intense blue eyes, as if trying to puzzle something out. "You said… they owned a shop."

"What?" I glance at him in surprise," No, both of my parents were teachers."

"Oh," he says, glancing out over the ocean," My mistake."

I follow his gaze, letting my thoughts drift as I watch the waves slowly ebb in and out. "I probably could stand to relax. I don't take a lot of vacations, and hardly ever to places like this."

"Where was your last vacation?"

"Tahiti," I sigh contently," It's a magical place."

He stands, brushing the sand off himself, and offers his hand. "You may be here a few more days. But you absolutely cannot go until you've swum in the Mediterranean."

I make a face up at him. "Swimming's not really my thing."

"Ah," he nods in understanding," That is too bad."

Without warning, he scoops me up, flinging me over his shoulder as if I weigh no more than a kitten. I cry out in exaggerated outrage as he carries me out into the sea, his soft laughter nearly drowned out by the sounds of the waves. When the water reaches his waist, he flips me down into his arms and, with a wink, tosses me bodily into the drink, completely soaking me. The moment I find my footing in the swirling ocean, I spring back at him, splashing him with whatever water I can reach as he easily dodges my attacks. It's easy, so easy, to forget who he really is and why we're really here, when his arm is covered and he smiles at me like that.

So, maybe for a few days, I will.


End file.
